


Catharsis

by nwspaprtaxis



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Coda, Crying, Crying Dean, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e10 Heaven and Hell, Gen, Hell Trauma, Protective Sam Winchester, Repression, Season/Series 04
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-10-06
Updated: 2010-10-06
Packaged: 2017-12-12 23:15:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/817189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nwspaprtaxis/pseuds/nwspaprtaxis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>let it out to let it in...</em>  Roadside confessions are all part of being a Winchester. And even though there's nothing that can be said to ever make it better, sometimes it helps just to be there. Tag / Coda to 4x10 HEAVEN AND HELL.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Catharsis

**Author's Note:**

> **_A/N:_**  So I, um, needed something — _anything_ — after that heartbreaking final scene in _4x10 HEAVEN AND HELL_ when I saw it for the first time in late September 2010. This one-shot picks up the second the screen goes black, so consider it a continuation / expansion of that final scene.  As always, a kazillion thanks and a huge smish to my wickedly fantastic Beta, **mad_server** , for the endless support and editing.
> 
>  _ **Disclaimer:**_ Do not own. Am not making a profit. Just simply having fun with their psyches and returning them slightly more battered to Kripke and Co. and all that Yada Yada. I also don't own _Hey Jude_ owned by the Beatles and Apple Records and which I have no hope of procuring the rights to, from which I stole a line for a portion of my summary.

“I wish I couldn’t feel anything, Sammy. I wish I couldn’t feel a damn thing.”

The words ring hollowly in the space between them, playing in Sam’s skull on a loop as he stares out into the middle distance, searching for answers, his train of thought underscored by Dean’s stifled weeping.

Another strangled, suppressed sob escapes Dean and Sam turns, he sees that his brother’s shoulders, tense and locked up, are shaking as he tries to get himself under control. Swinging his long legs over the bumper, Sam slides down beside Dean, careful not to touch him, not to intrude in his personal bubble. Even though Dean’s face is turned away, Sam can see his mouth working, his cheeks wet, tears still pouring.

“Hey,” Sam says softly. “It’s—” He stops himself from saying _okay_ , knowing that Dean’s so far from it he probably wouldn’t know _okay_ if it slapped him in the face. He wants so badly to reassure Dean that it’s really going to be all right, that they’re good, that things will be as they always were, but he knows it would be a lie, especially with the whole angels-and-demons crap crashing down around them. He wants to convince Dean that not all feelings are horrible, that he doesn’t really wish that. That it’s still worth it. But he doesn’t. He swallows, remembers the day at the pier, _there aren’t words… I could never make you understand_. And he knows then that Dean’s right; no matter how much his brother does the roadside sharing-and-caring, Sam’ll never understand a fraction of what he endured. Dean’s words from after Dad’s death come back to him — _So tell me, what could you possibly say to make that all right?_ There was nothing he could say then, and there’s even less he can say now.

But he knows he has to try, that he has to do something, even if Dean doesn’t want it. Silently, he edges closer and he places his right hand on Dean’s back, between his shoulder blades.

Dean flinches and stiffens up so badly, Sam nearly recoils, but he doesn’t. Instead, he eases off on the pressure but doesn’t withdraw his hand, his palm hovering, barely touching the coarse nylon of his brother's coat with the balls of his fingers.

Sam doesn’t say anything, staring out at the bleak landscape for what feels like an eternity. He’s not sure how long they’re there, leaning against the Impala, how long it is before Dean’s suffocated cries quiet. He can still feel Dean quivering with the effort of swallowing tears, physically trying to shore up his defenses that had been blasted wide open. To suck it up. Sam presses his hand against Dean’s shoulder blade, applying more pressure, and this time Dean allows him to offer contact, leaning his body into Sam’s, face still averted.

Finally, Dean stops weeping and looks up, gaze flickering momentarily over to Sam. He’s exhausted and drained, shadowed eyes puffy and red-rimmed and he’s still sniffing back snot, smearing away the last of the tears with his hand.

Sam breaks the connection before Dean can snap at him about chick-flick moments, placing his hand flat on the Impala’s hood. Dean looks like crap, but Sam can tell that he’s better. Not a lot, not even close to normal, but better than even five minutes ago. Or at least he’s got his walls slammed into place again.

Dean blinks and releases a long, shaky sigh, but doesn’t speak as he straightens. Another slow minute passes and Dean still doesn’t make an effort to move, refusing to meet Sam’s eyes, shoulders hunched in shame as he raises his beer bottle to his lips and swigs.

“D’you want me to drive?” Sam asks quietly.

Dean’s hand drops to his side, bottle dangling from between his middle and ring fingers as he studies the ground, and nods.

“Yeah.”


End file.
